


The benefits of meddling

by Mallorn



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Damsel in Distress, Eskel Whump (The Witcher), Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, POV Alternating, Rare Pairings, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Touch-Starved, Unlikeable Side Character, a little hurt and a lot of comfort, eskel saves the day, though a pretty badass one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27438754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Not meddling in the affairs of men was never Eskel’s strong side. Being imprisoned is bad enough – but he can’t watch a cell mate be assaulted by another without intervening. Angoulême is passionately grateful.
Relationships: Eskel/Angoulême
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	The benefits of meddling

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by the books, where mixed prison cells are a thing, even if Angoulême didn’t have the misfortune of ending up in one. Nor did she get to meet Eskel, poor thing. This takes care of that. Please enjoy!
> 
> Big thanks to Cassandra1 for continuing to spoil me with expert proofreading despite my wandering into a completely different fandom than the one we met in <3

Not meddling in the affairs of men never was Eskel’s strong side, and the familiar haze induced by dimeritium cuffs around his wrists wasn’t going to change that. Even his muffled senses picked up on the woman’s distress before she voiced it.

He didn’t act at once. Opening his eyes was too difficult. He lay in the dark and let the sounds and the smell grate on him until the ache in his chest surpassed the pain in his head and he was capable of registering his surroundings. A prison cell. Fighting, some kind of struggle, quiet but desperate. A woman, angry and afraid, and a man with her, aroused and confident. Careless.

Eskel blinked a couple of times, flexed his stiff wrists, and struggled to his feet. Immediately, he doubled over from nausea.

The woman let out a whine of agony and the air reeked of fear.

Drawing a couple of deep breaths, Eskel shook his head free of the fog. He couldn’t be passive. Must intervene. Must. He took one step towards the writhing forms on the floor, then another, then one more.

* * *

Angoulême yawned. Barely a day after she was taken, prison already had her more bored than scared. The others would come for her, that’s what a hansa was for, after all. In spite of his faults, Nightingale would free her, and she’d take a bloody revenge on the soldier who hurt her horse, he’d bleed for it, the entire village would! All she needed to do was wait, keeping a wary eye on her cell mates.

”I know what you need,” said the one awake, a gangly youth with a nasty expression. “Wenches of your ilk all need it, and it’s not like that shackled mutant is capable of anything. They’re all abominations and that one’s ugly as hell, huh?”

Her fingers itched for a dagger, but she nodded meekly. Nobody could say she hadn’t learnt a thing or two on the road. Better let him prattle on and hope that the other man, the one the guards had dragged in and left in the corner, was as out as it seemed. Even unarmed, she might have a chance against the leering idiot, but the other one? No way.

With his hulking build and scarred face, he didn’t have the look of a mage, but she was no expert, and dimeritium cuffs did enough damage even to village witches. Ugly, he was not. Half-asleep or unconscious, his eyes were closed and his jaw slack. An ordinary peasant face, a little broad as was common among northerners from the hills. Turnip-like nose, mop of thick, brown hair, the only spectacular thing about his looks was how his upper lip curled slightly from the scar across his cheek. It made him look rakish, and in any other situation, she wouldn’t mind a closer look. Now, she just hoped he’d remain asleep until she could see daylight again.

“Just wait until the guards change, tonight,” the prattler went on. “That’s when we can have some fun.” He made a rude gesture with his hands, and she pointedly looked away. “Heck, nobody could accuse me of love for the emp’ror, but prison life’s changed for the better!” He was quiet for a moment, his scratching himself the only sound. “Huh,” he said, then repeated it a bit louder. “Huh! Equal opportunities!”

She shuddered. Sure, she got how sharing a cell with a woman could be nice for a man, but for her, all it meant was more anxiety. The moment she let down her guard, they’d be upon her, availing themselves of her body. The only way she could delay it was by staying awake. It was cold, and she was hungry, and so tired.

She awoke with a start, immediately thrashing around to throw him off her. Even in the dark, she knew that the unpleasant weight on her knees was the idiot straddling her, one hand across her throat while the other tugged at her trousers. She clawed at that arm, her own too short to punch his face. The initial panic gave way to calculation. If she let him continue just a little more, he’d have to free her legs or move his face closer to her, and then she’d have his eye.

Then suddenly her assailant flew backwards, hit in the chest by a mighty kick. Scrambling to a corner, whimpering, he was no longer a threat, but now the big lug stood over her with gleaming eyes. She screamed.

The man backed off, and soon guards were at the door, banging and yelling.

“What the hell are you doing in there! Keep it down!”

A guard entered, followed by another holding a torch. They both looked around, taking in the scene.

“He assailed me,” Angoulême told them, knowing what it looked like. A woman on the floor, one man wailing and nursing his midriff, another standing, with a sneer on his face. His eyes glinted yellow in the torchlight. The guard went straight for him. “Not him,” she said, “the creep over there!”

The guard cast a glance at the culprit, then gave her a once over. “Professional hazard for criminals like you,” he said, unconcerned. “Change your ways, quit ending up here.”

“It’s not like I’m trying to be locked up,” she spat. “I’ve some honour, after all.”

“Damned witcher,” the other guard growled at the shackled man, herding him against the wall, the torch up in his face. “Freaks like you should all be dead.”

“I meant her no harm,” the witcher said. His voice was odd, but his face looked more tired than dangerous. He allowed himself to be roughly pushed to his knees, and then into a seated position with his back against the wall. When ordered to, he lifted his hands above his head, and the guard secured the manacles to a bolt in the wall.

“Done,” the guard said to the other, and then muttered; “Knew it was a mistake to let you roam around in here.”

The guards left without another glance at them, but left the torch in a holder just outside the grille door.

For a while Angoulême lay panting, trying to relax. She was no longer in immediate danger and ought to use the opportunity to sleep, but it was so cold. At last she sat up and crawled to the grille. It was draughty there, and no good was to come from the guards, but a little light seeped in. A poor comfort, but all she had. Shaking, she pulled her wrap tighter around herself.

“You’re cold?” It was the witcher.

“No. What does it look like?” she retorted.

“Look,” he continued. “I understand if you don’t feel particularly trusting, but you could sit with me.”

She snorted.

“I won’t do anything, I promise.” He spoke slowly, almost hesitantly. “It’s just… witchers are warmer. And we’re bigger. Good to sit on. For warmth, I mean.”

“What’s your name?” She wasn’t going to approach him without at least exchanging names.

“Eskel.”

She waited for a surname, a nickname, anything. 

“Just Eskel,” he repeated. “I’m not famous or anything.” He shuffled, sitting straighter against the wall, probably to take some of the strain off his shoulders. “What’s yours? If you don’t mind?”

“Might as well tell you. Angoulême. Bandit and miscreant. Of some renown locally.”

He nodded. “Well, Angoulême, you may come here. If you like.” He jangled the shackles. “I’m not going to try anything.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed, mostly for the benefit of the whimpering whoreson in the corner.

Eskel was broad, and warm, and he made a seat indefinitely more comfortable than the straw on the dirt floor. She was wary at first, of his feet and his mouth, but he kept true to his word. Too bad about his arms, she wouldn’t mind having them around her. He had very nice hands, too, large paws.

“Do they pain you?” she asked, her head half-turned.

“What?”

“The cuffs? I mean, more than the chafing?”

“Not much,” he replied. “There was nausea at first, and a slight headache that won’t go away. It’s nothing like if I were a sorcerer.”

“What can you do then? If you’re not a mage and they still needed to shackle you.”

“Trade secret.”

“Come on! I’m not asking you to disclose your entire code or what have you, just something small. What are they afraid of?”

“Fire.”

She pondered that. “Could you set fire to the door?” He nodded. “Burn this entire place down?” He nodded. “Fry the prefect in his own fat?”

“We’d all choke from the fumes.”

“Bugger. It’s still a nice skill to have.”

“It’s useful.”

After that, they sat in silence. In spite of what happened earlier, this was already Angoulême’s least uncomfortable imprisonment. She was warm now, enjoying the company of a decent man, and not as tired as before.

“You know,” she said, “if you feel like it, I could –” She ran her fingers suggestively over a meaty thigh. “Just to express my gratitude, of course. I suddenly feel very grateful.” She shifted, settling in a manner that made his thigh rub against her just so.

“Stop squirming, will you?” His voice was more tired than annoyed.

She did as he said, leaning back against his chest again, her arse pressing a little more firmly against his crotch. Whatever he said, he was half-hard already.

“Honestly, this isn’t very comfortable,” she told him after a while. She felt behind her, snorting at how he twitched when she touched the codpiece.

“I said stop.”

Some annoyance now, but still … she turned and looked at him; his expression was completely blank.

“You’ll find me more agreeable if you let me sit on this,” she said. Another squeeze, and he nearly jostled her off his lap.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just … I mean … a lady in your predicament wouldn’t seriously want …”

“A lady?” She laughed and turned around, straddling him face to face. “Take me for nobility, do you? Some fragile maiden? Listen, witcher Eskel, if I’d run off weeping every time a man poked at me –” She shrugged. “Your show riled me up good. I haven’t seen you fight with your hands yet, but if you ever need a hansa to team up with –”

“Witchers hunt alone.”

“Bugger.” She pouted, then smiled at his sheepish expression. “In that case, I insist. If this is the only time I’ll see you, I want to settle things now. Let’s start by taking this off.” She patted the codpiece.

“You don’t have to,” he growled. “I mean it.”

“It’s fair payment.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“You saved me,” she told him. “Means a lot to me.”

“Not what I meant,” he gritted.

“I know.” She peered into his strange eyes and cupped his chin, on the good side. He shivered like a nervous mare, but then leaned into her hand, a warm, minute pressure that warmed her to the core. “You’ve paid whores,” she said mildly, “haven’t you?”

He didn’t answer, just looked at her with an expression she could only call longing. His eyes glowed like amber lit from within. She ran her fingertips down his other cheek, very gently, watching how a tremble passed over the skin. She stroked him again and his eyes fluttered close. “This is the same,” she whispered as she held him. “Payment for a service.”

He stared at her, shaking off her hands. “Not the same thing,” he said. “This isn’t your job.” He sighed loudly.

“Exactly. Which means I don’t have to do it. But I want to. For personal reasons. Plus, I want to make that moron over there watch me give you what he tried to take.”

* * *

Eskel didn’t know what to make of the girl. Such gentleness moments ago, and now she smiled at the prospect of vengeance, a sly little grin that wiped every trace of youthful innocence from her face. The same as when he’d told her about Igni.

He wouldn’t say anything about Axii. No human needed to hear about that. So many lies were spread already, there was enough mistrust of witchers everywhere on the Continent. If they knew about Axii –

He couldn’t bear her to think he made her do it. Approach him, run her hands over his face, tell him she wanted. Make him want, too. She was smiling still, showing her teeth.

“You’re a cruel girl,” he told her.

“I have to be.” She beamed with pride, and this time her smile reached her eyes.

He smiled back, and the whiff of arousal he’d already picked up from her tripled. Sweet, youthful arrogance breaking through the usual prison odours of piss and rotting straw.

“One such reason,” she said, “is you look sinfully hot. And you’re kind. That one ranks pretty high among my personal reasons for wanting someone. But you’re a bit stupid too, if you’ll excuse me for saying. You could have bashed in those guard’s heads in and we could have run from here.” She sighed, looking wistful for a moment. “But you didn’t, and I guess that’s a kindness too, if misdirected. So, Eskel, we have some time to spend. What do you say? Will you let me?”

Dumbfounded, he nodded, not daring to speak, lest he say something that made her change her mind. He wanted, oh how he wanted. He had no right to accept her offer, no right to burden her with even a fraction of the furnace inside of him, the roaring hunger burning. He was ravenous, and he must hold back. He wanted to tear at her clothes, to bury himself in her, to be as monstrous as they said. More than anything, he wanted to stroke her hair as she rested her cheek against his shoulder.

Slowing his breath, he watched her hands at work, fingers deftly untying the twine that held his codpiece in place. If the tiny bows surprised her, she didn’t show it. One by one, she removed the ties and each time one of them fell away brought a fresh surge of sweet agony that made him suck in his breath.

The leather encased his prick snugly at all times – the size of the codpiece was perhaps a bit more modest than was practical – a fact he was harshly reminded of whenever excitement took him, and yet he was reluctant to replace it. The piece was carefully chosen with the comfort of others in mind, and although it drew attention from some, he’d rather not have yet another reason to make them run screaming from him. His face was quite enough, heck, even just being a witcher managed that perfectly.

This strange girl wasn’t afraid of him. Not even when he could no longer hold back a growl of pleasure at being free from the confines, from the tightness at his groin.

“Told you it’d be good,” she said. She ran her hand firmly along him, her eyes widening along with her grin. He groaned as she squeezed him, his need already leaking through his smallclothes. If she would just continue to touch him like that, just a little more –

“Please,” he groaned. “Please … stop.” It took effort to say it, but it had to be said. Even if she thought it was what she wanted, it couldn’t be. Not really. He had no right to presume. She would change her mind any minute now, shove him away and call him… things. He closed his eyes and turned away from her, too weak to face rejection.

“Hey.” Her voice was kind and he dared a glance. “What happened, gorgeous?” He saw it then, felt it, understood. She did want him. And if, sweet Melitele’s tits bathing in ale, if this bold, mischievous thing wanted him, then he wouldn’t resist. Rather, he’d offer her his mouth. Few said no to that.

“I want to … taste you.” He wet his lips. “Please.”

Her lips were on his faster than he had anticipated, eager and bold without a care for his scars as she lapped at his lips. Wisps of her hair brushed against his cheek, so soft his breath caught, and he had to break the kiss.

“Enough for now?”

He nodded, beating down the thought of ‘for now’ implying a ‘more, later’. “Thank you,” he told her sincerely. And yes, that would be enough … for now. “I had something else in mind. If you’d take off your trousers and straddle my face.” It came out more direct than he’d intended, coarser.

The wicked grin that slowly spread over her face made his breath hitch again.

“I like your thinking,” she said and kissed him once more.

She undressed quickly and put her boots back on before she stood across him. It took a bit of manoeuvring to find a good position, where his raised arms wouldn’t be too much of a hindrance. He inhaled her at first, the familiar scent of woman hitting him strongly as her curls tickled his nose.

* * *

Whatever Angoulême had anticipated, it wasn’t this. Not Eskel’s tongue seeking out every crevice, not his gentle but firm lips mouthing over her as soft as a horse sniffing for sugar, and certainly not the sounds he made. The minute whine as she tried to find a good angle, exchanged for a hum deep in his throat when he latched on to her. As if he liked it, as if he wasn’t just preparing her.

Wet heat rapidly built inside her; she was more than ready for his prick, and yet, she wanted this to continue. The stubbled chin against her inner thighs was a point of focus, the hair on his head another. It was silly to pet him, but his hair was so thick and so soft. Such a contrast to the battle-hardened hands in front of her, tied to the wall with an ugly, rusty chain. There had to be all kinds of filth on his skin and under his nails and she couldn’t care less. Careful not to jostle his wrists, she sucked his thumb into her mouth.

And then, she could only hold on to those big, warm hands, suckling his fingertips, breathing into his palm as her thighs trembled with the effort not to smother him. So much, so good, and that humming, oh sweet mother of mercy –

Biting his knuckles wasn’t nearly enough to stifle her moans.

She was almost afraid to look at him afterwards. He did seem to enjoy it, but it took a wide grin to confirm it. He looked so perfectly happy that she couldn’t help ruffling his hair.

“You’re marvellous,” she told him, smiling. “That was the best ever!”

* * *

Eskel was glad to see how happy she looked, the glow in her eyes even intensifying when she looked at him. Her satisfaction warmed his heart. No reason to make this awkward for her.

“This was enough for you,” he said. “I understand.” He was an expert at not letting disappointment show. She’d already given him more than he’d experienced for months; far be it from him to ask for more.

“You’re silly, you know,” she told him, tilting her head to the side. She looked like a slightly annoyed falcon. “I still intend to sit on your lap and have you rail me as good as you can.”

He knew he looked sheepish when he smiled – Lambert never missed a chance to tell him – but he couldn’t help it. “I’d like that,” he said. “If – if you really want to.”

“I very much want to,” she said, her voice down to a hoarse whisper. Grabbing the edge of his gambeson collar, she crouched over him and kissed him. 

He’d never thought to find such a wicked tongue on one so young; the boldness with which she tasted him had him bucking against her from the start.

“Yes,” she laughed, her fiery gaze meeting his without fear. “I knew I could count on you. Ready for some work?”

“It’s not wo – “

“I need you to lift up for me, can you do that?” She worked fast at his belt, and as he pressed his back against the wall and managed to lift himself from the floor, she tugged at his breeches, just enough to get them past his groin.

Done, she dropped down onto his thighs and caught his gaze again.

His cock lay proud against his belly, straining between them. Her hand hovering over him already had him weeping.

She kissed him again, and then she was guiding him into her, her wet heat slowly engulfing him. He let out a low moan and rolled his hips. The intensity of it nearly made him spend at once.

“Have me, witcher Eskel,” Angoulême announced and tossed her head back.

His feet finding purchase against the floor and his hands holding onto the chain, he found he could deliver quite satisfactory thrusts. His rider was proud and strong, matching each rock of his hips with one of her own. Hot, wet cunt clenching around him, the sweetest moans rising from her throat. He couldn’t last long, and when she slumped forward against his chest, clinging, he allowed himself to spend. With a grunt, not the roar that wanted to tear through his chest – he wouldn’t frighten her.

She wiped them off afterwards, straightened their clothes. He told her to leave the codpiece off for now.

“I appreciate that,” she said sleepily and resumed her position straddling his lap. Her fingers idly stroked his face, ever so gently. From how she smiled, she seemed to gain some comfort from it, and he was glad to let her. Her hands were as soft as the rest of her looked; he should have asked to see more of her, before, perhaps she’d have let him take her nipples into his mouth.

“What are you going to do after?” she suddenly asked. “When you get out.”

He shrugged. “Kill monsters. It’s what I do.”

“That’s not much of a future, is it? I’m going back to robbing, too, but only for a while. When I’ve enough money, I’m gonna open a brothel.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that! It’s a steady business. And not around here, no, somewhere nicer. You travel a lot, you must know good places.”

“Beauclair, perhaps?”

“Beauclair it is. You know, Eskel, you’re an awesome fuck. Would totally do it again.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.” She tucked her nose underneath his chin and sighed contentedly, asleep within minutes.

* * *

Eskel knew that destiny was a fickle thing, and that prison stays could end in different ways. He learned the first time that guilt isn’t necessarily what determines whether it’s freedom or the noose that awaits. Geralt always made it out, by the grace of his lofty associations with sorceresses and nobility. For a simple witcher, the outcome was less predetermined.

He kissed the girl’s hair, lightly so she wouldn’t wake.

The taste of her before reminded him of his first visit to the sea. He could still smell her, in the wetness drying on his chin. What did destiny have in store for her? Her dream of a brothel in Toussaint sounded like madness, but he’d heard worse. For himself, it didn’t matter that much. A few more years on the Path, a couple of winters with his brothers and Vesemir. Ale and food and Gwent, and, occasionally, when he could afford it and someone would have him, a little tenderness. Seldom as good as now. 

He listened to their heartbeats as he meditated, only opening an eye to glare at the third prisoner whenever the man stirred.

Eskel really shouldn’t meddle in human affairs.

He sighed with contentment, knowing he wouldn’t stop any time soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you wish :)


End file.
